


Marble

by romanticalgirl



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-05 08:15:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/720854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As smooth and cool as the columns of Rome</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marble

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://nolivingman.livejournal.com/)**nolivingman** needed some porn. And why bother pretending I had any chance of resisting?
> 
> Originally posted 1-19-06

He knows the curves of women as well as the swing of a blade. He’s made it a study, something to blot out the dismal weather and the bluish green of the fields. He knows the way women look at him, watch him like the Roman woman does. The Roman women like them – the Sarmatian pagans as they call them in whispers they think they cannot hear. But it is the pagan in them – the unfettered wildness – that they love so much, that keeps his bed, as well as his fellow knights’, warm in the cold.

“There are tales of you in the north country.” Her voice is cool and he imagines it emulates the hard marble of Rome’s columns. “Of all Arthur’s knights, though none so much as the great Lancelot.”

“Killing does not make me great, Lady.”

She trails her hands along the stone wall as she walks around his room, her eyes hot on him. “Staying alive does.”

“No knight in our cemetery is less great for having been slain in battle.” He stays seated on his bed, his eyes following her progress through his quarters. “Should you not be with your son?”

“My son is in the hands of the great Bishop. He is no longer my son.” She finishes her circuit of his room, stopping beside his bed. Her white gown brushes his knees as she comes to a halt. “I only pray that he remembers what he has been taught in the midst of all his learning.”

“Rome eats its young, Lady.” He puts the heel of his boot on the edge of the bed and leans back against the wall, sprawled lazily before her. “Like lambs brought to slaughter. Sacrificed for the greater good or the greater gold.”

She stares down at him, her eyes moving over his face from his eyes to his nose to the smirked cock of his lips. They stay there, watching as he shakes his head slightly. “Why have you not left? You have your papers. You are free to go wherever you please.”

“And whenever, would you not say?”

She nods her acquiescence and then reaches out, her fingers touching the bend of his knee. “My husband is…was not a nice man.”

His mouth curves further, his eyebrow cocking in matching amusement. “So I had noticed, Lady.”

“He was also typical of his friends in Rome. I was to sire and raise his child and he…he was to find his pleasure where he wished it.” She added another finger to her touch, rubbing the tips in small circles atop his kneecap. “He did not wish it of me.”

“And what did you wish, Lady?” He slides his heel off the bed and lets his leg fall, watching as her fingers dangle in the now empty air. “That he crawl into your bed ever night and rut against you until he fell asleep, satisfied that he’d spilled his seed?” He straightens as she stiffens her spine. Leaning forward, he catches her hand and turns it, staring at her fingers, as smooth and cool as they’d felt through the leather. “Or did you wish for more?”

Her voice is thick, heavier and warmer with something as she watches him touch her. “More.”

“And that is what you still wish, Lady?” He stands and laces his fingers through hers, holding their hands up between them, staring at her around their joining. “More?”

She does not speak as Lancelot smiles, sitting again and pulling her down onto the bed beside him. She lays back silently as he strips her clothes away, the clean, delicate white of her gown staining the dirty floor. He marvels at her skin, as cool and white as the cloth, untouched by scars of anything more than giving birth, the silvery marks battle wounds of their own.

He leans in and kisses her, feels the heat of her mouth contrary to everything else about her. Her tongue meets his tentatively until he pushes, capturing hers and sucking hard at it. She groans and comes to life, her hands moving from her sides to fist in his hair as he tastes her, licking and biting at her swollen lips until she moans from pleasure, her body thawing against the heat of his.

He breaks away from her long enough to strip off his tunic, tossing it atop her gown as he moves back in against her. Her nipples are tight and hard in the cool air, almost rough against his chest. He buries one hand beneath her and pulls her to him, bending to taste the length of her neck and the silken strands of her hair. Her breath is loud and desperate in his ear as he thrusts his hips, rocking against her bare flesh, feeling the heat even through his pants.

“Please,” she begs softly, arching her back and her hips, thrusting against him in return. He ignores her, seeking his own pleasure in the feel of her skin against his lips, like an aphrodisiac. She is smooth and exotic, perfumed and scented. He nips at her skin, leaving marks with his teeth and beard as he moves down her body, fighting against her gripping hands as he inches down to her breasts and captures one in his hand and one in his mouth.

She keens quietly and arches up again, offering herself to him. He knows his teeth are sharp against the hard but soft skin and doesn’t care, feasting on the intoxication of sensation. Her hands fist in his hair and pull, attempting to guide him to her other breast, but he ignores her, letting her fingers move down to rake across his back before he lets his attentions wander to the other.

Her body is alive beneath his, thrusting and bucking against him, harsh Latin words buffeting his ears as he pulls his head away and looks her in the eye. Her face is wild, tortured and hungry as he smiles. She gasps at the sight, seeing perhaps the fire he knows is in his eyes at the smell of her, the thick heaviness of her arousal that permeates the air. She whimpers, the sound lost deep in her throat, and he bends his head again, leaving rough trails of abraded skin as he makes his way down between her thighs.

Her nails dig into his flesh when he parts her legs, easing his arms beneath her thighs to open her up to him. His tongue darts out, sweeping along the damp flesh and darkened curls and tastes her, eliciting a guttural cry from her lips. He laughs, the sound dancing across her skin as he buries it in her flesh, his tongue delving deep into rush of wet heat.

Her legs lock around his shoulders and she thrusts up against him, her hands gripping and clutching in the blanket on his bed. Her body is both stiff and pliant as he touches her, stroking with fingers and tongue as she writhes down, pressing against his tongue. Her heels dig into the planes of his shoulders as she shudders, her orgasm coating his tongue in a thick flood. She relaxes against him and eases her legs beside him again, but he refuses to move, his tongue still stroking her, sending shivers through her body.

“Please,” she begs again and he ignores her once more, letting his tongue trail up to the hard sensitive nub as he thrusts two fingers inside her. He strokes, curving his fingers to lightly score the tense walls of flesh, rendering her silent. He can feel her arousal growing again, can feel her muscles coiling. She begs him again just as he stops, pulling away with a wicked smile. Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head, reaching out to touch his bare chest. “Please?”

He unfastens his breeches with one hand, stringing the laces free of their bindings and shoving the leather aside. He groans with hot relief as he frees himself, curving his hand around his shaft as he guides himself to her. Her hips roll off the bed again and he meets her with his thrust, penetrating her smoothly. She grasps at him, her breath falling from her lips like a death knell, shuddering and weak and gasping. He buries himself inside her and scrapes the smooth curve of her shoulder with his wet beard and rough mouth, sucking hard red marks into the alabaster white.

They grind together hungrily, neither doing anything more than grunting and breathing, husky whispers of more and yes and a soft prayer that he pretends not to hear. She comes again, sheathing him, and he loses control, his hips rough and hard against her delicate flesh as his body convulses and his fingers leave bruises that show starkly as quickly as he releases her.

He slumps to the side of her, spent and satiated, watching as she gets to her feet. She watches him keenly as she dresses, putting on her regal demeanor with every slip of cloth. She turns her eyes away as she makes the final adjustments to her gown. “Your freedom is as fragile as that piece of paper it is written on, Lancelot. The fires of Rome burn bright enough to consume everywhere.”

“You needn’t worry, Lady. I would no more tell than you would.” He rests his head on his hand, smiling knowingly as she moves to the doorway. “After all, as you say, I have a legend to uphold.”

 


End file.
